


Winter's Sweet Kiss

by crownedcersei



Series: Chance Your Blood Will Sing [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcersei/pseuds/crownedcersei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's lost and she's alone, but there's name's on the wind. And a song in her bones saying she won't be for all that long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Sweet Kiss

There’s wind in her bones, and a storm raging in the hollows. Ice filling out the cracks. Winter is s e e p i n g into her.  ~~Invading her programming.~~   Becoming one and becoming all. The knife in her hand and the torn tag on her wrist the only reminders of humanity.

**{A person isn’t a season, but can a season become a person?}**

Thoughts are crystal – no diamond, definitely diamond – clear. Memories aren’t the haze they were in the earlier, not so nice, days. One thought hasn’t got the power to drown any longer. Just to increase capacity and production.   ~~The wind in her is like a machine.~~

Sansa creeps. Everything, even high-heeled footsteps, are silent _. Quiet as the grave_ vows the weapon in her hand. There’s nothing on her face as the sound that should be  _click-clack_  becomes  _tick-tock_  in her mind.  It’s a waiting game _. A time game. A game about to be finished for this part of the round._

Doors can creak. Give warnings to their owners. This one was a loyal one, Sansa thought, but its warning would do no good now. The person stirs. Their bed is a comfortable one. Red covers to match a red death.  It’s a nicer bed than any her own family have been able to lie in for a good long while.

 “Screaming’s a vulgarity,” she says by way of greeting.  **Cheerful, cheerful, cheerful.** A finger almost dances along the edge of the knife, a breath of a touch away from getting cut. It won’t be her own blood spilled just yet. “Especially when it won’t do a person any good.”

Earlier in life she’d been naïve. Too naïve to see what is so very obvious to her now. Maybe it’s the winter, the ice, or the diamond clear eyes. Maybe it’s loss, time and revenge. Whatever it is has a bloodlust of great desire.

Death’s got the potential to be pretty.  Nobody had the grace to make her father’s pretty, but Sansa is nice enough – kind enough – to be willing to still even extend a favour, that had never been returned, to them.

Winter air is welcoming outside. The edge of the window kisses her skin a goodbye. Night swallows her whole as one of its own. Whispers on the wind urging her forward on the rest of her course. 


End file.
